


One Vacancy

by wardo_wedidit



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Compliant, Death of a pet, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Secrets, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 22:06:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2598119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wardo_wedidit/pseuds/wardo_wedidit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<i>Nick hummed and reached forward anyway, one hand on the side of Harry’s face, thumb sweeping slow over Harry’s cheekbone.  He was not going to cry.  He wouldn’t have cried yesterday, before he saw the mark on Harry’s hip, and he’s not going to cry now.  </i></p><p><i>Because nothing’s changed.  He still can’t have him.  </i>"</p><p> </p><p>Or, Nick discovers that Harry is his soulmate just before he leaves for tour, and tries to live with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Vacancy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Idzzdi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idzzdi/gifts).



> Just wanted to leave a short little note in case people missed it in the tags that this fic does discuss Puppy's death, so if that's something you want to avoid, steer clear. 
> 
> The prompter asked for a fair amount of angst in this one, and it does have some, but just bear in mind that it was mostly written while listening to Taylor Swift's "You Are In Love." 
> 
> Also the title is from Sam Smith's ["Make It To Me"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qd15ZrJkFJY). 
> 
> (I'm a sap, don't judge.)

As much as Nick and Harry hook up, they don't actually end up naked all that often. 

Mostly, this is for logistical reasons. They do a whole lot of blowing each other in the toilets of industry events (or once, a Radio One studio which Dev maybe saw, but if he did he never said anything so Nick chooses to live in denial), or in a dark bedroom of whatever house party they're at, and once, Nick's childhood room after everyone had gone to bed. All places that necessitate relative silence, and all places that make it more than a little difficult to properly fuck. 

They've known each other for three years, and Nick can count the number of times Harry has fucked him--whole shebang with lube, condoms, the works--on one hand. Four fingers, to be exact. And Nick's fucked Harry... Well, never. 

Not that they're exactly impatient to get there. Nick is certainly not complaining. It's sex with Harry--it's never been _bad_ regardless of all the variables. Nick will take all the blowjobs and handjobs and rubbing off on each other that Harry's got to offer, even if it's on the last night Harry's in the UK before leaving for a worldwide tour, or if it's a desperate, needy handjob in the toilet of a club that Harry's got to leave in a minute, because he has other friends and other obligations and a whole life, full to bursting. 

(Nick doesn't think too much about the way they always manage to catch each other on the way to somewhere else. Because this is just hooking up between really good friends, and nothing more, so it honestly doesn't bother him. Nick's not expecting anything more). 

To go even further, Nick is fairly certain he's the only guy Harry's fucking. At least, he knows he's the _first_ guy Harry had ever fucked. 

He remembers Harry trembling in his arms, shaky with nerves but still so fucking enthusiastic, kissing Nick until they were both so hard, flushed and sweating in Nick's nice clean sheets. He remembers Harry panting out _I've never, I've never, Nick--_ and Nick reassuring him with hushed words and gentle touches-- _S'not that different from a girl, Haz, promise_ \--as he slicked Harry up, watched his eyelids shutter closed with pleasure. He remembers Harry pushing in long and smooth, clutching Nick's hips and a groan punching its way out of his throat, rocking into Nick so slow and careful and then the way he came much too fast and how that made Nick laugh, kindly, even through his turned-on haze. He remembers Harry blushing, apologising, and then giving Nick a lazy, sloppy, messy blowjob after he'd recovered himself, and then both of them collapsing against the pillows. 

(For once, Harry was not gone by morning, like a princess whose time is up at the ball at the stroke of midnight. Harry had been dressed and in the kitchen, cooking breakfast and smiling a little shyly as Nick emerged, murmuring _Was that okay?_ after returning Nick's good morning kiss.) 

Nick does _not_ remember, however, a little mark shaped like the letter “c” on Harry's right hip. He does not remember it in all the times they've slept together. And he knows he would have, if he'd seen it. 

He knows he would have, because Nick has the exact same one in the exact same place on his own body. 

//

He notices it the first time he fucks Harry. 

They’re not drunk, like they sometimes have been in the past when they've done this. They’re stone cold fucking sober, and they’re making out slow and languid in Nick’s bed, hushed and comfortable. Harry’s underneath him, gasping and groaning into Nick’s mouth, hands searching all over with light touches, almost reverent. Harry looks so _serious_ that it almost makes Nick laugh, but he doesn’t want to break the mood. 

He catches himself, letting out a huff of breath instead when they pull away to pant into each other's mouths. “Alright, Haz?” he asks with the ghost of a smile, and Harry nods quickly, like he’s trying to reassure himself as much as Nick, biting his lip. 

“Yeah,” Harry sighs back, eyes slipping closed for a moment before they open again, looking determined, directly at Nick. “Will you fuck me?”

Nick doesn’t know why it hits him so hard, but he has to swallow past a lump in his throat. It feels _monumental_ , like everything, and Nick doesn’t have the emotional fortitude to parse it right now. “Yeah,” he murmurs, like if they speak too loud they’ll break the spell. “Yeah, if you want.”

Harry nods with an edge of desperation to it, and then it’s happening. Nick’s fingering him open slowly and carefully and Harry’s clutching at the clean, white sheets, moaning brokenly the same way he’s done the two other times they’ve done this. He goes slow until he’s got three fingers inside him and brushing against his prostate, when Harry is flushed and begging for more, and then he fumbles on a condom and slicks himself up and pushes inside. 

He trembles once he’s fully inside, Harry so tight and hot around that Nick feels like he could come instantly. It’s not exactly like he’s been waiting forever to do this, because he never wanted to push Harry or to do something he’s uncomfortable with, but now they’re _here_ and it feels so good. 

When Nick opens his eyes, there are tears streaming down the sides of Harry’s face, pooling in the corners of his eyes. Nick’s thumbs immediately go to wipe them away, because god, if this is hurting Harry or if he doesn’t want this, Nick might not be able to forgive himself. 

“Hey, hey,” Nick murmurs, urging Harry to look at him. “Does it hurt?” Harry shakes his head immediately, a quick back and forth to assure Nick _no_. “Are you okay?” Nick tries again. “Don’t be scared.” God, what a dumb thing to say. He hopes that _I’m not going to hurt you, I’m gonna take care of you_ goes unsaid. 

A slow, sweet smile slips onto Harry’s face as he looks at Nick. “‘m not scared,” he slurs slightly, half a laugh. “Nick, it’s you.”

Nick can feel himself looking at Harry slightly in awe because holy _shit_ , this boy. This fucking boy. 

It’s in moments like this when Nick can’t lie to himself. He’s in love with him. 

Harry edges up slightly to tip their mouths together, kissing Nick a little hesitantly and mumbling _move_ into his mouth, and Nick laughs a little. 

It’s not long before they’re gasping into each other’s skin, moving in tandem, honey-slick and sweet, Harry so responsive against each and every thrust of Nick’s. Harry comes before too long, clutching at Nick’s upper arms with his hair spread out against the pillow, all flushed and gorgeous as he shakes apart. He even does it without a hand on his cock, just Nick brushing against his prostate on every push, making Harry whimper and then come all over his own stomach. 

Nick pauses, practically holding his breath. He needs Harry to say something, do something, give some indication of if he's oversensitive and needs Nick to pull out. He's shaking with the effort of holding still, his hand settling low on Harry's hip, smoothing over the skin... And that's when he sees it. 

It’s just a tiny little mark, not raised or anything, just slightly discolored and in the shape of a "c" whose tail got a little carried away. Nick thinks wildly of all the times they've stood toe to toe, how the marks probably line up just perfectly, how they're in the exact same spot so that they would almost kiss if they pressed together, skin against skin. 

He’s distracted looking at it, jaw slack and eyes wide until Harry nudges his heels into the small of Nick's back. "Alright?" he asks, voice gone all gravelly and lovely and fucked-out, and Nick nods frantically, swallows hard against the lump in his throat, and pushes in again. 

He goes fast and desperate to distract himself until he comes, and then he's whimpering into Harry's skin and he can't think of anything else, even as Harry runs his fingers through Nick's hair and sighs, so content. He's boneless and pliant and happy, smiling sweet and soft when Nick pulls away to look at him in a way that makes Nick's stomach churn, fumbles as he pulls out and runs into the ensuite to get a damp flannel, clean them both up. 

"Hey," Harry says when he's done and Nick's lying back down, having purposefully avoided Harry's eyes for the past five minutes. He tips Nick's chin up to meet his eyes, and Harry's smirking, so open despite Nick and the way he can't get out of his own head. He had to make it awkward and weird, of course he did, just--they have matching marks. What the fuck. 

"You better not be moody about ruining my innocence," Harry says, eyes crinkled, half a laugh. "Or whatever."

Nick feels his lips crack into a grin because fuck, isn't that just like Harry? Make a joke, give a smile, charm the pants off everyone in the room. Smooth over the awkwardness like it wasn't even there. "'M not moody," Nick protests, rolling his eyes and resting his head on Harry's chest, feeling Harry's arm go around him like warmth, like instinct. 

"Good," Harry says. "Stop being stupid then," and Nick thinks _oh, if you only knew_. 

"Because we're definitely going that again, when I get back from tour," Harry says, voice going a little shy, and when Nick tips his head up he can see a slight flush to Harry's cheeks, a bashful smile. "I really liked it," he continues in spite of himself. "'m really glad it was with you."

Nick blinks fiercely, willing his eyes not to well up. "Me too, popstar," he says, sighing and letting his eyes fall shut before Harry can spot anything in them. 

//

Harry’s gone in the morning when Nick’s alarm goes off, but Nick already knew that would happen. He’d had an early flight from Heathrow to… somewhere, obviously. Nick has no idea. South America? Maybe LA first. At least he had woken Nick up to say goodbye. 

He knows better than to leave in the middle of the night without any warning now, after the first time, when Harry’d woken up in the middle of the night out of nowhere, gone out to the kitchen to have a glass of water and got all caught up in an episode of The Kardashians. Nick had woken up and panicked, unable to catch his breath. Harry had stumbled in at just the right moment and immediately wrapped all of himself around Nick, squeezing so tight. Nick remembers closing his eyes so hard that they teared up, listening to the little reassuring murmurs Harry was pressing into his skin. 

This morning he’d gotten up and showered, padding softly around Nick’s bedroom and bathroom like he was trying not to wake Nick up, let him savour his last hour of sleep. Nick drifted in and out of it, not wanting to shatter the illusion. Like if he didn’t open his eyes, Harry couldn’t leave. 

Then Harry had knelt at the side of the bed, smelling like Nick’s shampoo and shower gel in a way that made Nick sort of want to cry. He’d felt Harry’s hand on his forehead, gentle as he pushed his hair off his forehead, leaning in a pressing a soft kiss to Nick’s temple. Nick had stirred, rolled over in bed as Harry whispered, “I’ve got to go, Grim.”

Nick blinked his eyes open to find Harry’s hair still damp, curling at the ends around his face. He’ll probably pull it up into a tiny ponytail soon, get it out of his face to go through airport security and deal with the dozens of fans who’ll want to take pictures, and the thought makes Nick feel protective, make him want to hole up with Harry in his flat and wrap him up in blankets. Watch telly and make dinner together. Take the dog for a walk. 

Instead he’ll see Harry in the papers, articles online. Call him occasionally. Text more often than that. Talk about him on the radio like he’s someone else, a casual friend that he hasn’t seen cry, or get sick, or get angry, or fall asleep with his mouth wide open and shameless, or come. 

_Fuck_ , Harry’s his _soulmate_ , he thinks, swallowing hard in his throat. He’s still not even had time to fully realise that, other than how fucking unfair it all is. He definitely feels that acutely. 

Nick hummed and reached forward anyway, one hand on the side of Harry’s face, thumb sweeping slow over Harry’s cheekbone. He was not going to cry. He wouldn’t have cried yesterday, before he saw the mark on Harry’s hip, and he’s not going to cry now. 

Because nothing’s changed. He still can’t have him. 

“Be good, popstar,” he said instead, and Harry had smiled, slow and bittersweet but still excited, leaned in and kissed him. 

Then he was gone, slipped out the door all too fast before Nick could think to say anything else, anything substantial. Nick could hear the car pull away not too long later. 

He laid in bed, curled up small and tight in the sheets, unable to go back to sleep. 

//

“Holy shit,” is what Aimee says when Nick tells her a week later, the two of them three-quarters of their way through a bottle of wine. He’d told the story in fits and starts, having to back up and explain things, but she must have sensed the seriousness by the way she stayed quiet the whole time. Now she looks at him with all the colour washed out of her face, mouth wide open. 

Nick’s a little bit surprised at her reaction. “It doesn’t matter, right? You’ve always said they don’t matter.” He tries to keep the anxiety out of his voice. 

Aimee and Ian are together, and they don’t have matching marks. Aimee’s always said she doesn’t care, that she could meet someone with her matching mark tomorrow and walk away from it easily, because she loves Ian and they’re happy. 

Lots of people _say_ that. Nick thinks maybe it’s harder to stick to when you actually meet the person who has the fact that they’re meant for you inked into their skin. 

She purses her lips, weighing her words and carefully setting down her glass of wine on the coffee table. “It doesn’t, Nick, but… holy shit. _Harry Styles_ is your soulmate. Doesn’t that fucking complicate anything?”

Nick shakes his head, jaw set. “No. Nope. We’re still the same. We’re still just friends who occasionally fuck. He’s still a millionaire popstar on a worldwide tour who can have his pick of whoever he wants.” Nick carefully doesn’t meet her eyes, plucking instead at imaginary bits of lint on the couch. 

“So you’re just gonna pretend like nothing’s happened? You’re not planning on telling him?” she asks, something close to hysteria in her tone, and Nick swallows hard against the lump in his throat. He needs her to keep it together, or else he’ll lose it. 

“Aims, where _is_ he?” Nick fires back, steely eyes and frustrated tone, curling his legs to his chest. “He’s in fucking South America right now. What am I supposed to _do_?”

“That’s not fair,” Aimee bites back immediately, shaking her head, but Nick just shrugs. 

“It doesn’t change anything.”

She lets out a huff of breath like she’s frustrated, but softens when Nick rests his head against her knee and sighs, exhausted, rubbing a hand slow and comforting over his back. 

//

Nick throws himself fully into work like he can distract himself if he just tries hard enough. He plasters on a smile through the Harry stories Matt brings up, the jokes he makes on Showquizness. He ignores the concerned faces Fiona makes at him. 

(He answers Harry’s texts as shortly as he can without coming off weird or rude; he misses his phone calls.)

“Matt, can we lay off the jokes?” Nick finally asks one afternoon during that Clean Bandit record they all love. Anne’s just texted him something chipper and sweet and he’s staring at the little notification on his mobile, trying not to get weirded out by the fact that _hey, did you know your son and I were literally meant to be? The universe confirmed it and everything._

“What jokes?” Matt asks, distracted as he shuffles through some papers. Fiona’s out of the studio and Ian is looking studiously at his computer and pretending not to pay attention. Nick wonders how much he already knows. He’d sworn Aimee to secrecy, but he doesn’t know if he can hold her to secrecy with Ian. That might be unfair. 

“You _know_ the jokes,” Nick says, a little edge of a childish whine to it. It also has the added benefit of not having to say Harry’s name out loud. He can barely say it on the radio these days, always a little bit worried it’s going to come out high and forced and unnatural. That he’ll give too much away. 

Matt looks at him, squinting slightly. “Is this about the Twitter thing again? I thought all that had died down--” 

Ian goes a little pink since his words _technically_ started that whole fiasco (not that Nick would never blame him for it, those Larry fans that day were fucking psycho), which is how Nick knows he really is listening. 

“Just, aren’t we over it?” Nick says, going for nonchalant with a shrug. “Feel like we’ve been too heavy on him lately. C’mon. We need some fresh material. What happened to more butch? Don’t be lazy, Finchy.” He goes for his most charming, persuasive puppy eyes, which only succeed in making Matt roll his own. 

“Fiiiiine. Whatever,” he says, smiling a little bit, trying to hide it because he likes to pretend he’s immune to Nick’s charms. 

“Lads?” Ian offers, tone hesitant but hopeful like the child trying to smooth everything over in a tense moment. 

“Wheyyyy, lads!” Nick replies, holding up his arms. Matt rolls his eyes again, and everything is about par for the course. 

//

“Babe, would you hand me that spatula?” Annie asks on Sunday, when Nick’s round at her’s for tea. He’s currently watching her make some kind of unrecognisable concoction that he’s pretty sure he made a variant of at uni. It hadn’t been good then and Nick’s not sure he’s going to try it now. 

But Nick grabs the spatula anyway, deposits it into her waiting hand. She looks at him askance, through her tight curls. “You’re quiet today.” It’s a neutral statement but Nick isn’t fooled; Annie isn’t stupid. 

See, normally he would tell her everything. Annie has been his pseudo-therapist for years, but today he can’t stop looking at the little shell-shaped mark on her wrist and her gurgling baby son in his high chair, her whole life settled neatly into place, mark included. 

No matter what Aimee says, his own situation in comparison makes him feel like a fucking loser. 

“Just tired,” he says, shrugging, but he can’t shake Annie’s shrewd eye on him for the rest of the evening. 

//

_“Hey, just like, wanted to say hi… I’m in a hotel in like, Chile? Or something? Anyway, just… yeah, we haven’t really talked in two weeks or whatever, since I left for LA. And just, yeah. Wanted to check in, because you seemed…. dunno… over text. Um, anyway. Speak to you soon. Hopefully. Bye.”_

Nick’s listens to Harry’s voicemail at least seven times. He can’t figure out if the distance in Harry’s tone is due to the chatter and buzz in the background, if Harry’s purposefully trying to sound vague, or if he’s like, nervous or something. Then again, it’s always taken Harry about twelve years to finish a sentence. Still, it seems like something else. 

The thought of a nervous, unsure Harry makes Nick’s stomach twist. One of the things he’s always loved most about whenever they’re together is how _natural_ it was. From the very beginning they were simply comfortable around each other, their senses of humour clicking immediately. And yeah, he’s seen Harry cry, and pout when he’s in a bad mood, or get angry when he’s talking about something, but he doesn’t think he’s even seen Harry nervous or anxious about something Nick’s done. The fact that he maybe has now makes Nick feel a little bit sick. 

He calls him without a second thought, and Harry picks up on the second ring. 

“Hullo?” He sounds half-asleep and Nick can’t help the grin that takes him over, thinking of Harry with pillow creases on his face, ever-growing hair all over the place. 

“Hiya,” Nick says, knowing his smile is showing through in his voice and unable to help it. “Hold on, did I wake _you_ up for once? Soz ‘n chips.”

“Heyyyyyyy,” Harry whines, already sounding more awake, voice alight with laughter at the inside joke. "No fair. I have like. Time zones working against me." 

"Awwww, the trying life and times of the modern popstar. Whatever will you do, Harold?" he teases. 

And Harry's laughing, soft and low on the other end of the line, and god, maybe this is what it means. Maybe this easiness is the point, maybe that's what it all fucking means. That thing they can fall back into at the drop of a hat without even trying. 

"How are you?" Harry asks when he finally catches his breath. "Y'alright?" 

"Yeah," Nick breathes, picturing Harry lying on his back in a dark hotel room, covers twisted all around him, smiling with the phone cradled against his ear. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Harry hums, neutral, voice a little hesitant when he speaks. "I just--just wanted to check in because like. I hadn't heard much from you and I thought that was. Dunno. Weird." He laughs at himself a little softly, a little nervously. "Wanted to make sure you weren't mad at me."

"Why would I be mad at you?" Nick asks, feeling a little bit breathless. 

"Not _mad_ exactly, I guess, just like--like you were avoiding me. That maybe you thought it'd be better, or that you thought that's what I wanted, or something."

And fuck, that's the thing about Harry, isn't it. He can be so incredibly perceptive, and here you are living your life millions of miles away from him and he's _still_ got you figured out, because that's just who he is. It's incredibly sweet and ridiculous and annoying and Nick feels it all at once like an avalanche. 

"Nah," he lies. "Just been busy." He swallows hard, squeezing his own knee through his ripped jeans, digging his fingers hard into skin. "Sorry if I, like. Gave you that impression, Harry." 

"It's okay," Harry says, too easy, too forgiving, and Nick feels abruptly mad at him for being this way, so giving. "Just glad you're not, I suppose."

"Yeah," Nick answers, and there's a charged silence between them for a minute. 

Nick thinks about telling him for about two seconds, thinks about the mark on Harry's hip, but can't find the words or even his voice. 

"Hey so, we're gonna be in Glasgow at the same time, right?" he asks suddenly, tone changed, breaking the tension. Nick laughs. 

"Yeah. Big Weekend and all." Nick had made the announcement on the radio not two days ago and has been trying really hard not to think about it since.

"Can I see you?" Harry asks immediately, the words coming out too fast like he'd been saving them up. Then he clears his throat, and something about it makes Nick blush. "I mean... I'd really like to see you."

 _You have to tell him then. You_ have _to,_ Nick thinks, feeling a wash of guilt. "Yeah, Haz," he says, voice gone quiet. "Yeah, I'd really--um, me too."

"Great," Harry says, all the happiness and excitement shining through in his voice. Nick should feel--god, he should feel something about the way Harry so obviously wants to see him, even if it's only been two weeks. But mostly he just feels the weight of this stupid soulmate thing hanging over his head, making him second-guess everything. It makes his lips clamp shut and his mind race. 

He laughs a little, feeling sort of jittery. “I’ll see you then, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry agrees, all enthusiasm. “I’ll get everything sorted, text you the details.”

“Okay,” Nick says, blushing a little at Harry’s unabashed eagerness. “Well. Should let you get back to your sleep, popstar,” and right on cue, Harry yawn, starting a laugh out of Nick. “Don’t let me bore you or anything.”

“Noooo,” Harry whines, unwilling to let go but obviously exhausted. “You’re never boring,” he murmurs, and Nick can practically hear him settling down into the pillows, warm and cosy and comfortable. The thought makes butterflies dance around in Nick’s stomach. 

“Whatever you say, love,” he murmurs. “Bye, Haz.”

“Bye,” Harry murmurs back, and then they both stay very still on the line for a moment before they disconnect. 

Nick turns to look at his own bed, which suddenly feels very empty. 

//

He loses Puppy the second week in May. 

He spends a lot of time with Collette, who lets him cry and tell her over and over again about how _it’s not_ fair _, she was only two!_ and order in the most disgusting Domino’s pizza and watch loads of _The Simpsons_ and doesn’t say much, just rubs his back and agrees with him in all the right places. 

He misses work for it on Monday, can’t face going into the show and being relentlessly, exhaustingly chipper to wake up the nation. It would feel too fake and it would hurt too much, so he texts Matt and asks Dev to cover for him. Matt thankfully knows from Ian who knows from Aimee, so Nick doesn’t have to explain it, which he appreciates. 

He gets a text from Harry the night before he goes back to work, when he’s lying in bed trying to fall asleep. (The problem is his eyes are all puffy and itchy from all the crying.) It says _Hope you’re okay. Sorry about everything. Miss you._

Which means either this soulmate thing is more intense than he thought and Harry can actually read his mind now, or their mutual friends have been sending Harry updates on him. Which, he’s not sure how to interpret at this hour, but he thinks it’s embarrassing. 

_thanks_ , he texts back, and then debates for a good minute or two before finally sending _miss you too_. 

He sets his phone down on the nightstand and tries to breathe. Eventually, sleep comes. 

//

Harry was right about Glasgow. He texts Nick the details of where he’s staying and what time to get there, everything. Nick’s had a really fun weekend watching some of the DJ’s mix to thousands of people, and then crowdsurfing at Annie Mac’s gig, even if he did lose his shoes. But now he’s feeling really nervous, knowing what he has to tell Harry. His knuckles have gone a little white around his cell phone, where the directions are. 

It’s definitely not a hotel he’d be able to stay in, so it’s sort of ludicrous that he’s here, but it’s still more manageable and realistic than Harry leaving his hotel with hundreds of screaming girls outside. Besides, he is the Radio 1 Breakfast Show DJ and that counts for something, so no one’s going to question it. 

All he has to do is go up to the front desk and give his name as Nick Grimshaw, and then someone escorts him to the lift and then gets out with him, key in hand, and unlocks Harry’s door for him with a flourish. Nick feels a little weird about that, because he can’t tell if that’s just the kind of place this is or if it’s the special Harry Styles treatment. 

“Haz?” he whispers when the door is shut behind him. Everything is dark and shadowed in Harry’s hotel room, though it’s spacious and obviously very nice, even if Nick can’t see a damn thing. “Harry?”

There’s a muffled noise and from the adjoining room and then a pair of arms thrown around him, squeezing Nick tight. Nick hugs back on instinct, something tight within his chest finally loosening, even as everything logical in him says, _it’s only been a little over a month._. He closes his eyes, breathes in the scent of Harry’s hair, and relaxes. 

“Are you okay?” Harry asks, voice hesitant and tight, and Nick would think it was due to tears if he didn’t know any better. 

“Fine,” Nick answers back immediately, on automatic, and then Harry pulls back to look at him. As his eyes adjust, Nick can see how his lips turn down into a frown quickly, and then feels how Harry smooths over the creases in Nick’s brow with his thumb, moving down as he brackets Nick’s face with his hands, tips of his fingers resting gently against Nick’s cheekbones. 

Nick is about to say something when Harry kisses him. 

The kiss makes him lose his train of thought. It’s not scathing, scorching with heat the way it can sometimes be when they haven’t seen each other. This is like… this is like Harry trying to melt into Nick like they can become one thick, swirling, molten thing if they just move slow and purposeful enough. This is Harry easing Nick’s jacket off his shoulders, and then unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his pants; this is Harry curling one hand around Nick’s neck and then settling the other on the small of his back; this is Harry walking Nick backwards and pressing him down softly into the sheets; this is Harry pulling away and rolling onto his side so that he can reach over and turn on a lamp and look at Nick in the low, yellow light. 

Nick turns his hand to see him, where Harry’s head is propped on his shoulder and his fingers run comfortingly through Nick’s hair. “Haz,” he says, and it comes out too serious, too wobbly and honest. 

The edges of Harry’s lips edge up slightly, his whole face so fucking open that Nick doesn’t even know how to start, just gasps for the breath he still hasn’t caught and can’t quite believe he’s here. 

“Want a coffee?” Harry asks instead, voice quiet and rumbly in that homey way Nick loves. 

A laugh bursts out of Nick’s chest, and he feels proud that it’s only slightly hysterical. “Popstar, it’s midnight.”

Harry shrugs, and Nick laughs for real this time. “Alright, do us one.”

He listens to Harry putter around in the next room, because apparently Harry’s famous enough to have a little kitchenette in his hotel. Or at least a coffeepot--Nick’s not really sure and he’s definitely not getting up to look. 

He sits up when Harry comes back with two steaming mugs, props himself up against the pillows, wrapping his hands around the ceramic when Harry passes it to him. Harry turns on the television in front of them, clicking around until he finds _The Simpsons_ and mutes it, setting the remote back down and resting his head on Nick’s shoulder. It’s all so lovely and familiar and cosy that Nick abruptly wants to cry, blinking fast and swallowing past the lump in his throat. 

They drink their coffees and talk in quiet voices. Nick tells him about Puppy and Harry literally holds his hand through it, presses a kiss to Nick’s knuckles. Harry talks about working in LA, the life-changing beauty of Machu Picchu, screaming fans--and the stupid things the boys do on the tour bus, making Nick genuinely, actually lose it laughing for the first time since. He helps Nick brainstorm questions to ask Katy Perry and Harry helps Nick pick out what to wear tomorrow, and then eventually Nick reminds Harry to set his alarm to get up in the morning and make it to the festival on time. 

They turn the lights off and lie next to each other like a pair of parentheses, kissing and kissing and kissing until they both fall asleep. 

It is the perfect night.

The next morning they wake up at the last minute, rushing to get ready and out the door--separately, discreetly--to where they need to be, and it’s then that Nick regrets just the tiniest bit that they didn’t have sex, watching Harry pull a baggy jumper over his muscled frame, making his hair go wild. Harry smirks at him like he knows.

They see each other next on stage, and Lily’s there and Fearne Cotton and tons of crew milling about, so it’s easy to talk to Harry like it’s nothing, like it’s easy. Lou Teasdale is there running a brush haphazardly over Harry’s face and Harry’s chewing gum and smiling, telling some stupid story that Nick will find funny anyway but still take the mick out of him for, and then he’s onstage. He makes stupid faces at Nick the whole time in a way that makes Lily shoot him inquisitive, smug eyes and poke him in the side, and Nick just rolls his own like it’s all one big joke. 

“He can’t stop looking at you,” she whispers--or, as much as you can whisper at side-of-stage, where sound is shit and everyone’s screaming over each other anyway. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Lily gives him a look like _yeah, right_ and doesn’t say anything else about it. Bless her.

And then--then he’s gone, like a whirlwind, and Nick didn’t even fucking tell him. 

He tries not to beat himself up about it. It was a fantastic twelve hours, or whatever it added up to in the end, and he’d be lying if he says he didn’t need it. 

There was no way he’d have been able to shatter the intimate, perfect quiet of last night, and then from this morning on everything just moved too fast and they were always in public. 

Just--soon. Nick will tell him soon. 

//

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Aimee hisses at him when they get a moment alone. “I thought that was _the point_ of that whole encounter. What, was he too busy fucking you?”

Nick winces a little at her words, and Aimee eases it back a little, squeezing his arm. Tough love and real talk are her first instinct, and normally Nick appreciates that, but he always feels a little sensitive post-Harry, like there’s some vulnerable bit of him unintentionally left exposed. “Sorry. Just… Grim, when are you gonna tell him _now_?”

“He’s in London in twelve days,” Nick says, setting his jaw, trying to feel resolute. “That’s not long at all. I’ll tell him then.” 

Aimee nods, trying to be gently encouraging, and appreciates the effort even if it’s half-hearted on both their parts. 

//

In the end, Nick can’t even wait that long. 

He goes for lunch with Gells, who claims to have big news. Nick is suspicious of this motive, as the first thing she does when they’ve gotten their food and are onto their second drinks is ask him what’s the matter. 

Nick rolls his eyes. “ _Nothing._ Why does everyone keep assuming there’s something wrong with me? Maybe there’s something wrong with all of _you_ ,” he humps, stabbing at a tomato on his salad with particular gusto. He ends up missing and it rolls right onto the floor, because that’s the way his life goes. 

“Babe,” Gillian says, eyebrows raised as she takes a sip of her wine. “If you seriously think you can hide from _me_ of all people, you’ve got another thing coming. Honestly, you’re just lucky I didn’t bring Henry along. He would not have waited this long to bring it up. Or have been this nice, for that matter.”

So he tells her, embarrassed and guilty, speeding through the short version with his head in his hands. When he’s finished, he looks up at Gillian to see she’s grinding her teeth. 

“What?” he bites out, already frustrated. “You going to call me a name, Gells, or tell me how stupid I am? Because I promise you, Aimee’s covered all those bases.” He’s holding his fork so tightly he can feel the metal cutting into his hand, a little bit, but he feels hot and angry inside and no one understands, do they?

Gillian huffs out a breath, face hurt and livid all at once. “I’m moving in with my boyfriend, Grim.”

Nick drops his fork. 

When she laughs, it comes out somewhere close to distraught. “I thought--I thought he didn’t have--”

“He doesn’t,” she says, voice gone quiet now, subconsciously tugging the collar of her shirt closer to her neck, as if to hide the lopsided, uneven star that’s stark against the pale skin of her collarbone, even though it’s already covered. 

Gillian is the opposite of Aimee in that she’s always insisted the marks _do_ matter, at least a little bit, in that it shows the universe has _some_ kind of plan, even if it screws up more than half the time and other times just flat-out never materialises. She’s always claimed that she’d wait for the person with her mark, the eternal optimist. Yet here she is.

“Oh,” Nick says, and it rings with inadequacy, but Gillian’s lip is quivering and she’s whispering at him with passion in her voice and he feels worse about the whole situation than he has yet. 

“Christ Nick, you’re just giving up before you give it a chance, aren’t you? And here I am, putting it all out there even though there’s someone else out there I don’t even know who could just walk into my life at any moment. Maybe we’re both idiots. But it’s not like I can stop living my life because of some distant possibility,” she hisses, breaking eye contact and taking a deep breath before continuing, fiddling with the napkin in her lap. 

“Don’t you think that’s selfish? Robbing Harry of a shot at something he doesn’t even know is an option?” She’s composed now, blinking at him plaintive and good as ever, and Nick covers her hand with his own and squeezes. 

It’s that face he remembers when he’s sitting on his sofa, phone clutched between his hands, and dials Harry’s number. 

_Breathe,_ he reminds himself. _Breathe._

“Hey,” Harry says, already sounding delighted when he picks up on the second ring, and words just jumble out of Nick before he can stop them. 

“Can I talk to you about something?” 

Nick can practically hear the furrow in Harry’s brow, the concerned tilt to his lips. “Yeah. I’m--I have some time. We have to rehearse in a minute, but. What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

“I’m--I dunno,” Nick admits, his stomach churning. “Just. Do you remember the night before you left for LA?” 

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, the tension coming through in his voice. 

Nick bites his own lip, hard. “And… and you remember the little mark on your hip?”

Silence. 

In that thirty seconds of silence Nick’s brain races through everything, from the look on Harry’s face right at that very moment to the way that some of his fans hold up homemade signs at shows, Harry’s hand locked in Louis’ with their fingers intertwined, each ring finger marked with a little triangle, convinced or deluded into thinking Harry’s somehow covered up one. He thinks of Jane, and Liv, and Liv’s father that he never met but who isn’t around anymore and who had the same little “x” on his foot. 

“Nick, _fuck_.”

“Harry,” he says, tone already frantic to explain, but Harry cuts him off. 

“Are you really doing this?” he asks, and his voice sounds thick. “Are you really doing this over the phone when I’m in Sunderland, of all places? It’s been a month and a half since that night, Nick.”

“Harry--”

There’s some shouting on the other end of the line as someone calls Harry for sound check, and Nick feels his heart sink into his stomach, dead and heavy. 

“I have to go, Nick,” Harry says, voice definitely husky with something that could be tears. “I have to, I have to--” and then a click. 

//

Nick can’t sleep that night, tossing and turning and maybe waiting for the phone to ring. He waits until Harry’s show ends and then gives them time to get on the tour bus and then he’s just _waiting_ , even though he doesn’t know what for. 

At 3:30 a.m., it buzzes with a text and he swears he almost has a heart attack. 

_You’re coming to the Wembley show, right?_

Nick texts back faster than he thought possible. _yeah, the last night_

Nick watches the ellipses on Harry’s side of the screen appear, and then disappear, and then appear again in a cycle of about two minutes before he gets back _Can you stay after? So we can talk?_ , and Nick would be a real idiot not to say yes. 

//

He brings a whole horde of kids to the show, who make great distractions in that they chatter all the way there and can get him out of his head. Kate and Stella also come, help deal with the mass of people. Stella doesn’t seem to notice his chatty, rambly nervousness but Kate does, sending him a puzzled look. Nick tries to send messages with his eyes. _Don’t ask, please. I can barely handle thinking about it_. 

Because she’s a little bit magic, somehow she gets it. 

Of course he takes all the kids back to meet Harry onstage, and he swears Harry could have been a natural actor, because he acts like nothing’s wrong at all. He’s great with the kids, and they all even pose for a picture, and Nick tries not to look too much like a deer in the headlights. 

Kate gives him a look like she’s leaving him to it and makes noises about all of them leaving--Sunday night and bedtimes--and Nick shoots her a grateful smile. 

Harry approaches him like Nick might bolt, face carefully clear but a little bit desperate when he says. “Can you wait like, an hour until I’m done here?” and Nick nods, croaks out a _yeah_ and waits while Harry changes clothes, says goodbye to members of the crew and the boys, does whatever else it is he has to do. 

And then Harry’s grabbing his hand and leading him out to a car, with a driver, who takes them to Harry’s place. They sit on opposite ends of the seat and do not touch, but Nick thinks he can hear Harry’s brain whirring inside his head, evidenced by the way he can’t stop moving his leg with anxiousness. 

//

“That’s… yeah, that’s it. _Fuck_ ,” Harry says, after he’s gotten Nick to expose the same little mark on his own hip. 

In fact, those are the only words he managed to get out other than _Show me, please_ when they first walked in the door. 

Nick wants to fumble his clothes back on--the jeans and pants around his ankles, the shirt he unbuttoned so as not to look like a weird, trouser-less person. But Harry’s running his fingers very softly over the mark, soft enough that it tickles a bit, and Nick can’t move. 

The expression on Harry’s face is a little bit in awe and a little bit overwhelmed, and Nick doesn’t know what to do with it even when Harry steps away and straightens up. 

“Sorry,” Nick says on instinct as he tries to get dressed again, and Harry’s face shutters. 

“What? Why?”

He breathes out, and it comes out wobbly and horrible. 

“For like. Dragging you into all of this, I guess. Springing it on you without warning at the worst possible time. _Hi, I’m your soulmate!_ ” Nick jokes, scrubbing a hand over his face. 

Harry won’t look at him, scuffing his toe into the floor. “Why else?”

And… that’s strange, isn’t it? But Nick goes with it, willing to try whatever anyone recommends to get the frown off Harry’s face. 

“For not telling you. For keeping it from you, even when I saw you in person. For telling Aimee and Gells when you didn’t even know.”

Harry nods, and then whispers again. “And?”

Alright, that’s _definitely_ weird, because Nick might have made a dick move here but it wasn’t intentional. He was just--really overwhelmed with the whole situation and it’s not exactly like his life has been _easy_ lately, either, and what the fuck more does Harry want from him that Nick can possibly give?

He throws his hands up. “I dunno, Haz. Give me a fucking hint here. For being a twenty-nine year old DJ instead of some fit girl from California who doesn’t have any tanlines?”

Harry’s head pops up, face colored in absolute disbelief. “ _What?_

“That’s all I got,” Nick says with an honest shrug, already feeling himself get defensive as he watches Harry’s face puzzle with it. 

Harry laughs, bitter and complicated, and then bright and happy, which seems a bit unfair if Nick’s honest, and then--and then--

And then Harry’s kissing him. 

It’s a good kiss, the kind that makes Nick want to go weak in the knees like some Victorian woman and the kind that he always remembers about Harry. There’s something in the way that he goes all in, sometimes, like this is being filmed for a movie or a science experiment for the best kiss ever, or something less ridiculous Nick’s brain will surely come up with later when it isn’t being kissed. But there’s definitely something about it, the way Harry goes all in like he does in everything, just puts all of himself into it without even a second thought, like complete and total investment was the only possible option. 

“That’s it?” Harry says, breathless when he pulls away. “That’s honestly it? Not because--because you don’t love me and you don’t want to be shackled to some flighty popstar that’s never here?”

 

Nick makes a very embarrassing disbelieving noise that makes Harry smile and flush, still so close. “What are you on about, Styles?”

“Just… we never _talked_ about commitment because I didn’t think you wanted it--”

“ _I_ didn’t want it? Which one of us is an international popstar on a worldwide stadium tour?”

“--and it’s unfair to ask it of you when I’m barely ever in the country--”

“I didn’t want to ask it of _you_ when there are groupies everywhere--”

Which is, of course, when Harry punches him (not too lightly either, Nick’s gonna remember that) in the shoulder. “Will you _shut up_ about the groupies?” Harry laughs, and Nick feels himself grin, going teasing and happy and laughing too, feeling more himself already. 

“Seriously though,” Harry asks, meeting his eyes, a shiver of nervousness barely hidden in them. “You… you love me?”

Because at its heart, that’s what this whole thing is supposed to mean. It’s the person you’re meant to fall in love with. It may not always work out or maybe you’ll never meet them or maybe you’ll meet someone else instead, but this is your _soulmate_. The person the universe decided you should take a shot at loving. 

“Yeah, Haz,” Nick says, feeling a little bit like he’s glowing from the inside out with how much he’s smiling. “I have for--for a long time.”

Harry’s face goes watery and he pulls Nick down into the couch. It’s small, so they have to press together to avoid falling off, Harry kissing him over and over and running his hands everywhere he can reach, humming every time Nick starts to smile into it. 

It’s definitely not the second time in their history that they’ve fallen asleep after just making out, but it _is_ the second time that Nick thinks that there couldn’t possibly be anything better than this. 

//

When he wakes up in the morning (at an ungodly hour, because he still has the radio), Harry is dressed again--a well-worn t-shirt and his boxers, cooking a full English in his own kitchen, brewing coffee and singing to himself under his breath. 

Nick gets up and pads over, resting his chin on Harry’s shoulder as he works on the eggs. Harry grins reflexively, morning-soft and perfect, still humming, and Nick feels his heart do a cartwheel in his chest. 

“Whatcha singing, Styles? Am I getting an exclusive off 1D’s hotly-awaited fourth album? Should I record this? I’m only in this for the Radio 1 exclusives, you know.”

Harry elbows him in the stomach. “Your hip says differently,” he says, turning around, still smiling. “Nice try though. Dean Martin.”

Eggs seem pretty irrelevant at this moment, when Harry’s standing there, looking pink and soft and warm, and Nick basically needs to get his hands on him. They stand toe-to-toe, and Nick thinks about how their marks are right up against each other right now, painting a symmetrical picture. 

It’s a very nice image, he thinks, but he can think of a better one as he slides down Harry’s body. 

//

They burn the toast.

//

The next time they see each other, Harry’s got a show in Paris and Nick takes off in that direction on a Friday, grinning on a motorbike as he drives past the Eiffel Tower.

He’s back there that night, under a starry sky at three-thirty in the morning when all the tourists are either in bed and the locals are too drunk or too cool to recognise them. Harry nudges their shoulders together--still careful and intentional with touch--and they look up at the top together, wide smiles and flushed cheeks. The light of it catches just perfectly against the chain on Nick’s neck, which holds a key. 

Later, in their hotel room, Harry will play “La Vie En Rose” on his phone and they’ll sway, still dressed in their suits but in socked feet. It should feel a lot stupider than it does, because it feels like fucking everything. 

The spot on Nick’s hip feels just as warm as Harry’s arms around him, just as warm as Harry’s kiss. 

//

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to stick pretty close to our "canon" timeline (just to make things more difficult for myself, of course... there is an actual spreadsheet on my computer _just for this fic_ , god) but I did have to fudge it a bit in some places. You know. For happiness. 
> 
> [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zJsYgqQ0zEk) is the song Harry's singing at the end, which he [has tweeted](https://twitter.com/Harry_Styles/status/400230013439868929) before. And of course, Nick [tweeted](https://twitter.com/grimmers/status/527251377454854145) La Vie En Rose just recently when he was out with Harry. :)
> 
> Also thanks to my loveliest Britpick-er ever for everything always! You know who you are. If I name you here I'll totally give the game away and take all the fun out of anonymous posting! <3


End file.
